Page 79 of Five
Lord almighty! I can kick him in the shin, pinch his thighs, twist his nipples, or climb him like a tree and ride him until sunset. All viable options.
The fastidious ringing keeps resounding within the four walls. “Do you mind telling your phone to sod off?” I cross my arms and send him a heated glare.
He grabs the blaring device and answers it with a heated, “Sod off!” before hanging up.
“Did you…? What was…? What?” My brain seems to have short-circuited. He’s doing it again, going hot and cold.
“Did I render you incoherent?” he taunts me. His hand rubs over his jaw in what seems like a lazy motion, but it hides a well-rehearsed dominating act I’ve seen him use with other lawyers from the opposition. He stands up, and rounding the desk, stops in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head all the way up.
“I’m not one of those supercilious, stuck-up blokes you work with. You can’t play me.” I poke him in the chest and turn the glare up a notch. “And I’m certainly not a pity case or a slag. You can't make all the decisions and move me around like a puppet.” Huffing like a dragon, I’m about to turn around and leave when he says, “I know, Lori.”
“Then what the bloody hell is your problem?” I yell. If I didn’t love my curls as much as I do, I’d tear them all out in exasperation. “You were forced to fuck me in that club, but then you covered me in cum all jealous as shit at the charity event and left me with a shrug. Next, you moved me into your apartment with no explanation, and I woke up this morning alone and with dry jizz all over me. In the kitchen, you acted like nothing happened. Just give me some damn instructions because I’m lost here. Or is that what you want? I’m off my trolley here!”
“No.” I see him clenching his teeth. “It did happen,” he growls, full of fire. And in front of my eyes, he becomes another person.“Come here, Little Wasp.” That nickname again, and that stronger accent too.
“Are you certifiable?” I ask, puzzled by him.
His eyebrow rises up mockingly.
“I’m serious, you just… Who are you?” I take a step back, and he narrows his eyes at me. I know he doesn’t like that I’m putting space between us.
“I’m not.”
“Then just explain to me why one minute you are your usual self, icy and unfazed, and in the next you look at me like…like—” I swallow hard.
“Like?” he drawls sexily, taking a step toward me.
“Like you want to eat me.”
He smirks predatorily.
“Fuck. Stop that!” My voice has risen to a shout. I’m panting, red-faced, my hands twitching to do…something. Shake him. Rip off his clothes. I’m not sure.
The smirk falls, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. No wonder, with how tightly he has it clenched.
“I had DID,” he confesses.
DID. Dissociative personality disorder. I had a client with that condition a couple of years ago. I try to remember what I learned about it, searching inside my memories. DID is a mental health condition that can cause gaps in memory and hallucinations. A person with DID has two or more distinct identities. The “core” identity is the most present personality. “Alters” arethe alternate personalities. These identities control behavior at different times. Each identity has its own personal history, traits, likes, and dislikes.
“I have a separate personality, an alter, Bezaliel. Bez.” It’s confirmation that I’m talking to Gabe now, and that he’s the core identity.
Wait a minute. He asked me to call him Bez in bed last night. Too high on pleasure, I really hadn’t thought much of it. Did I have sex with his alter last night? Is that why the first time he was so wild and dirty, and then in my bed he turned silent and although rough, more tame?
“We are very different from one another. Opposite. He used to come out anytime he perceived danger when I was a kid to defend me,” he says matter-of-factly.
DID is usually the result of sexual or physical abuse during childhood. Sometimes it develops in response to traumatic events like…
“Did you develop it because of what those scientists did to you?”
“No. Those years made it progress, but it started way before. Having an abusive father who liked to beat me and my mother to a pulp gave life to Bez.”
The disorder is a way to distance or detach from a trauma. “Fuck. Is your father still alive?” I ask, already creating a plan to kill the maggot.
He shakes his head, his lips twitching slightly. “Bez disemboweled him the first time he came out. I have no memory of it.”
“How old were you?”
“Six. My mother took the fall and ended up in jail. Social services came to pick me up, but I never made it to a group home.”
